


The Charismatic Cannibal’s Guide to Self Care

by deux



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: (Very strangely resolved), Alastor is a bad man, Breathplay, Cannibalism, Cannibalism Play, Character Study, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Gore, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Medium Burn (TM), Mention of past violence against sex workers, Murder Husbands, Mutual Masturbation, Porn With Plot, Predator/Prey, Psychological Trauma, Resolved Sexual Tension, Trans Male Character, Unconventional Relationship, Vore, and Angel likes bad men, to say the least
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:01:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21842620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deux/pseuds/deux
Summary: Alastor chuckled around a hand. Angel would never get over how sharklike he could look. Fangs were the norm here, but Alastor’s had a certain animal quality that fit strangely in a humanoid face. Too big and too many. And right now they were tinged with a hint of red from his choice of drink.“So what,” he said, “would liven up the place for you, sport?”You might assume that Angel Dust is the bad influence in every situation. You would be wrong.The Radio Demon has plans for Hell, and plans for Angel. And they aren't pretty.Will contain gore/cannibalism/murder and plenty of fun, bad people. Please read the tags and content warning. Plot now, smut to follow.
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Angel Dust & Valentino (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 51
Kudos: 202





	1. Hydrate.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know a thing about Hazbin aside from what’s seen in its pilot episode, so if anything here isn’t canon just go ahead and think of it as a weird AU, I guess?
> 
> And a content warning!
> 
> This fic features a version of Hell that is objectively wrong and shitty, and punishes “sinners” equally.
> 
> *There are also frank mentions of past sexual assault and violent physical harm to sex workers. Alastor is a scary person, and Angel’s been through scary things.*

The sirens had been going off all day.

Not an invasion from Heaven— it wasn’t time for the yearly extermination yet— but another of Hell’s many daily catastrophes. Today it was a sort of acidic, ashy hail that would burst on impact. It’d leave welts on your skin, and then it would bore holes into you.

Because of course it would. _Classic_ Hell.

Angel was starting to come to the conclusion that Hell kind of sucked ass.

After decades of this repetitive bullshit, he was thoroughly done. Not in the “boo-hoo, I want to go home” kind of way. It was more of a “this is lame and existing is a goddamn chore” thing. Who would’ve thought what really got to you about Hell wouldn’t be torture and pain or whatever Catholic masochist garbage he’d heard as a kid, but sheer tired-as-fuck routine? Being trapped indoors with nothing to do— no drugs, no _one_ — felt like a circle of Hell developed in a lab specifically to torment him.

Niffty was probably buzzing around some cobwebbed wing of the hotel right now, cleaning to her heart’s content. Anxiously trying to ignore all the crap accumulating outside, just out of her reach. Husk, on the other hand, had fallen asleep hours ago, despite all the noise. _Kind of impressive, honestly_ , Angel had thought, watching the rise and fall of Husk’s chest as things boomed and shattered in the distance. He was poured like liquid across a cushioned bench near a window on the second floor, dead to the world, and he looked as if he might fall off at any minute. He reeked of booze.

The urge to shove him off was strong, but Angel resisted. He was supposed to be on his best behavior now, after all. He figured he’d get Husk back later— aim a laser pointer at Vaggie’s feet and see how that shook out, maybe.

It was night-time. Or its hellish equivalent, at least— no such thing as true night-time without true daylight. But it was dark, in any case, finally. In the past few weeks, Angel found himself saying “finally” more and more. The end of every day felt like a relief. The reality of Hell was that tomorrow could be more of the same. _Would_ almost definitely be more of the same, actually; that nutso blonde broad on the TV had told everyone to anticipate up to a week of this dusty burny hellfire bullshit. The shrill voice coming out of her alien head seemed delighted by the prospect of another awful forecast.

The others (Vaggie, Charlie) had left to run some chore hours before the hail started falling, and they were presumably holed up in place wherever they’d been when the sirens kicked off.

_Bet they’re shacked up and havin’ more fun than me. Lucky Uhauling assholes._

The world was sulfur and summer as he descended the stairs. He could taste and smell it in his mouth, even if he didn’t have what you’d really call a nose. There were no real seasons here, of course, but that sharp hot flavor and the way the air clung to him gave the impression of deep July.

Out of nowhere, a scene reared up in his mind. Peals of laughter. The smell of hot wet cement. There he was, running around with some neighbor kids, knocking the heads off fire hydrants and dancing in the water.

 _Ew_ , he thought, and he shook it away.

It wasn't the first time a nasty Brooklyn memory had hit him out of nowhere, uninvited. The little shits loved butting their way into his day lately.

Outside, bursts of grey hail falling from wherever trailed down to the ground like comets, and it was almost pretty. For a brief second in their descent, they’d ignite into blue flame. The stained glass of the hotel’s lobby lit up brightly each time, and Angel couldn’t help himself. He sat at the bottom of the stairs, long legs stretched out, and watched.

It was that kind of night. If he’d had an audience, he wouldn’t be doing this; looking nostalgic meant looking sad which meant looking weak, and it invited questions that he didn’t feel like answering.

The red orange tint of the windows turned purple with every blue flare. Despite the sirens, it was almost peaceful. This “weather”, if a bastardization like it could still be called that, was so expected that there wasn’t a single scream of pain to break the monotony. Everyone was just stowed away in their little nooks and crannies, waiting it out alone.

He let out a heavy sigh, and then his thoughts were shattered.

“There you are!"

Angel jumped and whipped his head around.

“Oh, FUCK. How’d I forget about your weird ass.”

Alastor was sitting at the lobby’s bar top, helping himself. An array of bottles crowded together in front of him, catching the purple light. He looked prim and proper, his tailored suit buttoned tight and pressed as usual, and his legs crossed. As he jiggled the foot facing Angel, Angel spotted a red hoofprint tapped into its sole with nails.

_What a fucking nerd._

"I was wondering when you would come down to join me! Apologies for interrupting your little reverie! I hope it was a good one."

Just under the sirens’ blare, Angel could make out the buzz of the radio that seemed to follow Alastor wherever he went. Some old song was drifting in and out, barely perceptible. A long dead starlet warbling about sunshine.

“You ARE going to join me, of course! I insist,” Alastor said. “It’s been too quiet down here. We really DO need to get more tenants on board, if only for the sake of our own entertainment.”

Angel stayed put on the stairs. He didn’t necessarily feel wary, but he never liked being told what to do. Especially not by this guy, who everybody deferred to for whatever reason, the pussies.

He scoffed and crossed all of his arms across his chest. “Not into it.”

Alastor grinned wider at the open distaste for his company. His mouth quirked to the side weirdly, and the microphone cane leaning next to him burst to life like a ventriloquist’s dummy. An impression that Angel couldn’t place spilled out: “Why, SAY, sweetheart, whad'll ya have?”

And Angel laughed, then stood, despite himself.

__________

“Bored!” Alastor chuckled, louder than usual. “You don’t like the time to yourself? Surely such a modern day Narcissus isn’t bothered by his own company.”

“You taking the piss out of me? I can’t tell, and I don’t have the energy right now. Just lemme bitch.” Angel was having the same wine Alastor apparently favored, and he already felt himself softening around the edges. He shook his head and took a sip. “I prefer a lil bit a’ chaos in my day. Shit’s been too cozy lately. It’s _boring_. Come on, I know you of all freaks get me.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I do! Not a soul around to badger,” Alastor said through bared teeth. “I did hear you knocking around upstairs, but I assumed you’d make your way around to the lobby when you felt up to company. I simply didn’t have the _heart_ to rouse our dear bartender, and so....” He gestured at the bar and the army of bottles he’d laid out. Angel could smell red wine on his breath.

”You sure you just didn’t want him being cheap with his pours?”

”Ha! Well, he’s always generous with me.”

“You shoulda woke him up,” Angel snarked. “Would’ve added some fucken’ well needed drama, him going apeshit at you for ruining his daydrinker catnap.”

Alastor chuckled around a hand. Angel would never get over how sharklike he could look. Fangs were the norm here, but Alastor’s had a certain animal quality that fit strangely in a humanoid face. Too big and too many. And right now they were tinged with a hint of red from his choice of drink.

“So what,” he said, “would liven up the place for you, sport? A little music? A dance? Afraid I don’t feel up to indulging any of your self destructive hobbies at the moment.” He paused and made a preemptive strike: “Or the more lascivious ones.”

”What, no drugs? You whipped up this bar from thin air, like it was nothing! You’re such a square, Smiles." He paused. "Dunno what that last thing you said means, but...ughhh.” Angel sprawled three of his arms out on the counter and slumped his head down dramatically. “Just spare me the after school special.”

“I’d never condescend to you! ‘We're all equals here’, after all." He winked. It was strange to hear Charlie’s words come from his mouth. She loved her stupid pep talks. “I’m actually offering to make this place a bit more interesting. However the mood may strike, and within,” he drawled, “reason.”

Angel thought for a moment, and Alastor pressed on.

“Aside from your usual hedonistic pastimes, what would strike your fancy?”

“A change a’ scenery.” The words tumbled right out of Angel’s mouth before he even processed their absurdity. There was no getting out of this hotel. Not tonight. He popped his head up from the bar and gestured drunkenly. “Which, by the goddamn way...why are you even here? Can’t you just spook yourself wherever you feel like going?”

”Ab-so-lutely!”

”I don’t fucking get you, you know that?”

Angel had been letting his mind wander, mixing one of his fingers in his drink— but when the passive static of Alastor’s radio stopped, he found that he had to pay attention. 

When Alastor replied, it was undistorted.

“If I can speak freely and frankly...lately, I’ve found myself disillusioned with all the,” he waved a hand, “effects. Only slightly, of course! But sometimes, every now and then, I prefer a bit of nostalgic sitting around. Like a stormy day at home as a boy.”

Angel couldn’t help himself: he was dumbstruck by the honesty. “Whoa there, bambino. Feelin’ that wine?”

“Maybe. Just a touch! It’s a good while before anything takes its toll on me since I died. But I have been indulging for a minute now,” he mused.

“If it’s any consolation, sweet stuff, I get what you mean. About, uh, _diss-alution_.”

Alastor's nose crinkled at both the pet name and the pronunciation, but he said nothing, smile frozen. It was quiet still, aside from the intermittent call of sirens. Angel stretched in his barstool, long and catlike, hoping it seemed casual. He stood, cracked all of his knuckles at once, popped his back, and plopped back down loosely. Alastor tracked every movement without moving his head.

“So your change of scenery, Angel. We can do that.”

“Oh yeah?”

The Radio Demon took his microphone in his hand, and set it between them. A dull red glow burned inside its face.

“Your place, or mine?”

“Al, did you just throw me a bone? Baby's first double entendre! I like you when you’re not all there.” Angel eyed the cane, and the claws that held it. “Uh, if you're serious...let’s go with yours. Don’t want any of that fucky voodoo genie wording shit backfiring on me, am I right?”

"Close your eyes.”

“And miss a second a' looking at your handsome self? I’ll pass."

Alastor scoffed. “Angel, please. Just for a little while, can we speak to each other as if you don’t harbor some sort of great suspicion towards me?”

“I mean...I'm ‘ _harboring_ ’," Angel mimicked nasally, "a whole naval fleet of fuckin' suspicion, so I guess you’re shit out of luck. I’m good at role play but I’m bad at pretend.”

The blank stare that came was unnerving, but the voice was gentle.

“Humor me. Close your eyes, and we’ll go somewhere and see something you haven’t seen since you last felt sunlight.”

The mention of sunlight nudged something around inside his head, and he considered it. In some sleepy crevice between the warm hypnotic tones of Alastor’s voice and Angel's own suggestible tipsy brain, a decision was made. He slipped his eyes shut.

“Fan- _tas_ -tic! Now whatever you hear...keep them shut, until my say so.”

Angel bristled at the wording, but stayed quiet. He found himself covering the lip of his drink out of habit. They sat for a full minute, Angel in darkness, only the buzz of the microphone audible between them. His eyelids felt heavy.

The next thing that he heard made him gasp. He struggled to stop himself from peeking.

It was a gentle, faraway, static laced sound at first, but it became clearer and closer the harder he listened and the less he questioned it. The nape of his neck tingled.

"Are you hearing it yet?"

“You serious, Al? You're not jerking me off?"

"I'd never dream of it!" Alastor laughed. "Really."

Angel was buzzing with such unpracticed excitement that he didn't even catch the joke. “Can I look?”

“Yes,” Alastor said. “I think now is as good a time as any. Seems to’ve taken.” Angel thought he heard an odd drawl bubbling to the surface of Alastor’s voice.

He let his eyes open, and there it was: rain.

Normal, earthly rain, coming down loudly and in full force.

They were still sitting at the hotel’s bar, but everything else— the stained glass, the fuck-off-tall ceilings— had disappeared. It was as if a barrier extended around their party of two. The bar top was untouched, but rain poured in beautiful heavy white sheets everywhere else. It fell around them like a curtain, splattering to the ground in puddles. The run off from the invisible roof of their bar made a sound like water down an old house’s gutter.

With the hotel's hardwood gone, the floor looked like a thick, marshy kind of grass. It extended into the distance, muddier and muddier, and if Angel squinted far off into the darkness, he swore he could make out the shapes of a great willow tree swaying. The world was American night time cast in tones of black, blue, and green.

“Wow,” Angel choked out, “holy shit, wow.”

Alastor watched him marvel, but when Angel moved to stand, he laid a hand on his shoulder. “Ah-ah-ah! Nothing there for you to touch, I’m afraid. It just slips away if you try. But in any case...what do you think, Angel, dear?”

“Your fucky voodoo shit? It _FUCKS_. ”

“Ha! I'll assume that's a good thing, coming from you. But it's nothing of the sort. Just an auditory trick...a hallucination, you could say. A shared one, and a little more sophisticated than the usual fare, but-“

“God, you’re so full of yourself, ya red prick,” Angel said, and he was surprised to hear that it actually sounded fond.

__________

“It strikes me, suddenly," Alastor crackled, "that you see me as... out of touch."

Angel couldn't say how he’d gotten to this point. He felt giddy off the sights and sounds of the rain around him, and any edge that might have naturally come from a chat with one of Hell’s most infamous demons had melted away. It had been a solid hour of forced, witty back and forth, but now it was as if they’d finally fallen into a comfortable rhythm. This was the longest they’d ever shared a room, let alone a conversation.

"Outta touch? Naaaah," Angel replied, all teeth and sarcasm. "Whaddya think that for?" Something moved out in the rain, so he let his eyes drift beyond Alastor’s face, which was far closer to his than he’d usually be allowed. Past his antlers and the owlish tufts of his hair, Angel thought he could see the silhouette of a dog sniffing through the storm. When he blinked, it was gone. He sluggishly glanced back to the man in front of him, feeling every drink he’d had so far.

Alastor cocked his head more slightly than usual, an unnaturally thin hand under his chin. Then he stared straight at Angel, unblinking. After a long stretch of silence broken only by the tuning of Alastor's radio, his eyelids shut with a gross audible tick. He turned back to his wine, smiling as always.

Even Angel, for all of his crass social disruption, felt put off.

 _That's how this guy does it_ , Angel thought. _He just shuts up and lets you talk yourself into trouble._

He knew that the others, aside from Vaggie, saw the behavior as nothing more than the uncaring social awkwardness of a demon above it all. When you get to the top, after all, there’s nowhere left to look but down at everybody else.

But Angel hadn't survived on his looks alone. (And yeah, he'd be the first to admit that they had definitely helped.)

You had to know when to fold and when to pursue. Hell had it all. It wasn't difficult to get yourself sent down here, after all. The rules were loose in their far reaching strictness. They were outdated, and they were cruel, and they were unfair— and that right there was an uninhibited, stupid, drunk thought if he'd ever had one. Something he’d never say out loud, out of fear of sounding like soft fresh meat.

Life in an unfair Hell meant that at any moment you could be talking with a quiet, likable girl who had just been getting by— or the Ripper who had killed her. It was a toss up.

No one knew who Jack was, after all. Even Hell's hottest podcasts couldn't root that guy out.

But overlord status like Alastor's didn't go to the quiet likable ones. It went to the ones who deserved to be here.

 _Fuggit_ , he thought. _I_ am _trouble_.

Angel pulled his vodka cranberry (so little of the latter that it was almost clear) to his chest and twisted in his bar stool to face Alastor properly. He leaned towards him even closer, conspiratorially. "'Tween you an' me, Smiles...actually, I think you're real swell. Really dig the whole uh-sthetic you got going for you. You got a shtick and you...SHTICK to it. Nothin' wrong with that."

"HA! Shtick, stick! Very clever."

Angel listened to that bitter lilt tinting Alastor's voice, watched the tilt to his red eyes, and knew he'd struck a chord. The Radio Demon had a face that was never what you could call inexpressive; despite his plastered on smile, the rest of him moved constantly. There were emotions there, contrary to popular belief. They were just functionally unreadable for all their quickness. Always shifting from one manic state to the next.

There was something different about those features now. His body language was tighter. It was new, a bit more raw. Angel was reminded of his own tendency toward drunken oversharing, and wondered if maybe all of that wine wasn't finally tweaking at something in the deer's animal brain. Lowering his defenses a little. Or his inhibitions.

You never know what fun, stupid things alcohol will make somebody do. Especially somebody who’s such a goddamn over-stuffed shirt.

"Just say it, then. To you, I seem like..." Alastor twirled a hand as if he was searching for a word, and his wrist spun unnaturally. Sitting this close, Angel could hear the click of old bones. His stream of radio chatter was interrupted by the old time beeps of a telegraph transmission. "...outdated tech-nology!"

Over the crisp hiss of his enunciation, a laugh track burst into hysterics at the punchline.

When it came to Hell, there were a lot of things Angel Dust figured he would never adjust to. The lack of real sunlight. The fact that it was so easy to get into the exact kind of trouble that made his heart race. This was definitely one of those impossible to wrap your head around things: the uneasy, stirred up reality. The static and hum of the Radio Demon's aura— his captive studio audience— didn't broadcast out from his body. Instead it felt as if it was all coming from some other place and time, way beyond the fourth wall.

The rain kept beating down around them.

Angel forced out a laugh right along with the ghostly crowd. The noise sounded a bit too nervous and young to him.

He fucking hated that.

"Come on, Al. Not like you make an effort to keep up with shit. You're just an old man who likes his grampaphones or whatever." He fluffed his chest out of habit. "Just wish ya weren't such a prude on top of it. Look at all the cool horseshit you can pull," Angel gestured at the downpour, and then he ducked his head in even closer. “The suited daddy thing is kind of a turn on, too, no lie."

Alastor's eyes slid lazily down to Angel's chest, his head still fixed straight ahead. For the first time in a while, Angel Dust's face felt hot.

"Goodness gracious, I thought my reputation always preceded me down here, but I suppose some things go unsaid, even from the loose lips of gossips." When his eyes snapped up to meet Angel's, Angel swore they twinkled. Like some sick Santa, dumb red clothing and all. "A prude, of all things."

"Damn, Al, are you tellin' me you've been holding out on me? You got a wild side that wants to come out to play sometime, lemme know." The heavy purr in Angel's voice was an old trick, but even drunk he had enough sense not to try his "hand on thigh" standby.

"A-ha! You don't know the half of it!" Alastor swirled his wine playfully. "I'm afraid we don't have the same idea of a night out on the town, but I do appreciate the invitation."

"So you ARE a secret freak? Or what? No offense, shortcake, but I don't know what you're gettin' at. I got about two brain cells functioning right now and they're both drownin' in your fancy ass whatever-proof. You do know there's supposed to be juice in this, right?"

Alastor eyes pinched shut and he pushed out what could only be called a guffaw, shaking his head. "Ah, Angel Dust, you ARE quite the funny fellow. You have a knack for timing, as well. If you ever choose to pass your career onto some young upstart, I'm sure that you could make a pretty penny directing your talents elsewhere."

"Uh," Angel said, and, "wha?"

"The radio, boy!" Alastor slapped Angel on the back harshly, jostling the drink from his grasp. He caught it clumsily with his second set of hands and sucked his teeth at the inconvenience.

Alastor stretched one skinny arm out like he was presenting a car on a game show. The wine in his glass sloshed.

"Angel, you've already mastered the realm of visual media. Isn't that right? Your quick wit and charm would get you far on the underworld's grand audio stage," Alastor narrowed his eyes and his grin didn't falter, maybe widened a tick, "even if it would be a sinner’s shame to hide your face behind a dial."

His voice had seemingly dropped an octave, but it maintained his usual cheer.

Angel couldn't help the sudden thud and jump of his heart. He didn't expect anything like this when he sat down. What he anticipated was almost the polar opposite— Alastor's usual impolite disgust at his antics would have been entertaining enough on a night like tonight.

But this? This was something infinitely more interesting.

"Did I just hear that right, handsome? Flattery will get you everywhere."

"Of course, my dear. Broadcasting to you live, loud and clear. " Alastor said. That disembodied laughter kicked up again. "Never any harm in stating the obvious! Someone has to. You've got a REAL spark, a special something."

"Al." The words felt insincere.

Alastor shifted his glass to his other hand, lowered the free one to Angel's knee.

When the hairs on the back of Angel Dust's neck stood on end, he had a good idea of what was going on. It felt something like the static pull of a balloon at his nape, tugging his hackles to attention. He had wished, when he was alive, that he could have a sixth sense just like this one.

You never knew which John would be the one to want to break you. Some thought they’d paid for the right. Clients could be the standard sloppy blowjob type one second and then a sudden snap would come, like a mouse trap. Loud and inevitable. A blow to the cheek cracking bone, a concealed knife at his groin, digging and drawing blood. A hand closing around his throat. And it was a mixed bag, a morbid guessing game: could be the nice, generous regular, could be the grimy new guy.

Anybody could decide to take.

His spider sense, the only real blessing his new demon body gave him aside from the ability to give six handjobs at once, was saying "violence" and "danger" and "fucking run, dipshit".

Alastor rubbed slow small circles around Angel's knee, sing-humming a song to himself as he gulped down more alcohol, like a multitasking act in a talent show. For all of Angel’s experience, he found himself frozen in place. _Deer in the headlights_ , he quipped in his own head, numbly. _How fucking ironic_.

"I believe I told a white lie earlier. Or lied by omission, perhaps? In any case, our late nights up top in the world of the living might have had more in common than you'd think.”

"What do you," Angel asked, "have in common with anything that I'm into?"

"I have a great respect for your profession. Your lifestyle. My own overlaps, you understand, so we are, ah... co-workers! Of sorts, at least."

"...porn? Hooking? Fuckin'...uh, showbiz? I'm not getting it, Al."

"' _Showbiz_ '! Oh, that is a good answer. And I suppose technically accurate. But no," Alastor said.

Angel didn't think his body could get any stiffer. He felt glued to the spot by those eyes, that hand. A hand respectfully staying on his knee, never creeping upwards. Suddenly, the bar felt too insulated from the rest of the world.

"In my time alive I spent plenty of hours in workplaces not unlike your own, looking for the right people to join me."

"People to join you?" he asked, dimly.

"People, yes. Oh, I'm an equal opportunity offender," Alastor winked, "not unlike yourself!"

"I meant 'to join you' for what, Al. Don’t play fucking dense, ‘cus I’m not. You don’t strike me as the type to go sniffing out women for the _girlfriend experience_.”

Alastor tipped back his head and drained the last of his wine. "I'm not at all prudish or inexperienced. I have nothing against anyone in your line of work, either. To the contrary."

Angel stared.

"The fact is that predators like me," Alastor continued, "couldn't exist if the world respected the hard work of people like you. If anyone else cared. You pick out some young thing and take him for dinner, no one says anything when he doesn't return home come morning. If he has a home, that is.” He laughed. It didn’t sound any more cruel than usual. “Baffling!"

Angel found himself struggling to respond before years of back talk took over. “Why the hell are you tellin' me this shit, Alastor? I don’t need the rundown. I’ve done overnights with the fucking Sitter Strangler.”

"I suppose...that I just want you to know I'm not disgusted by your advances. Your offers." His hand paused in its tracks. "They just aren't what I want from time alone with you."

"It's late," Angel said abruptly, and the words hung in the air for a long beat. Alastor's static was quiet. The rain shimmered.

"How brusque of you," he grinned out. "Downright bold."

Angel Dust stood clumsily to his feet, and the killer's hand slipped off his leg.

"You know, Angel, you are awfully keen on pushing my old buttons, so to speak. I didn't expect you of all sinners to take the same treatment so very poorly."

As Angel stumbled away from the tableau the Radio Demon had conjured, the rain sizzled and disappeared. It all vanished in a flash of blue light through stained glass, gone in an instant, leaving nothing but the mundanity of the hotel and its bar in its place. Alastor still sat there, pouring a new glass of wine, his posture straight and unbothered.

The spot where his hand had rested on Angel’s leg felt like it was on fire.

__________

Angel’s head was fuzzy. His heart still pounded out a warning, but in the relative safety of his own room it was finally quieting down. Other feelings started to overtake his fear. And fear is what it was, as much as he hated to admit it.

Alastor hated being touched, but he didn’t have any qualms about invading the personal bubbles of others— including Angel. So the hand on his knee wasn’t the first time Angel had felt those warm claws. The Radio Demon shoved and tugged people wherever he wanted them, regardless of where they wanted to be, and Angel was no exception. In the past he'd even felt Alastor’s arm snake intimately around his shoulder as he waxed poetic on the entertainment value of the hotel. Alastor could be downright friendly with his gestures. Overly familiar.

This touch was not friendly. It had set Angel on edge, of course. He couldn’t help but think that was fully intentional. Was the guy just fucking around, trying to scare him off? That would track. But it felt sincere, in whatever twisted drunken manner it was meant.

Either way, there was a probably (definitely) unintentional side effect: Angel’s trademark ill advised, insatiable lust was flaring up.

The burn of Alastor’s touch on his knee ran right up between his legs like a rip in a pair of tights.

 _You horny dumbass_ , Angel thought, foggily. _You’re gonna get yourself so, so dead over this one_.

He stumbled to the bathroom to piss. His mouth was stale. He lazily brushed his teeth while he sat on the toilet. He was too tipsy and comfortable to change, so he stripped down and collapsed on his bed in a heap of naked limbs.

Angel ended the night with two hands between his legs, one over his mouth, and another digging a deep bruise right where he still felt that clawed hand.

__________

In his dream, it was raining again. His mother had a cup turned upside down on the kitchen countertop, and one hand around his wrist, keeping him from fleeing.

“Angel! My angel,” she laughed out in her warm Italian. “It’s a spider! Just a little spider. Look at her, come.”

He could never say no to his mama. He stopped trying to run, and she let go of his wrist. The spider was scampering under the glass, back and forth, met by invisible walls in all directions. “You see? Just a little one. And watch,” she pulled the cup up, and the spider stayed put on the linoleum.

“Why isn't she running?” Angel wondered out loud at his mother’s magic.

“She came in from the rain, and she was scared. And now she’s been caught! She's too afraid to run, just frozen like a statue.”

“Oh,” he said.

“Spiders can’t see as well as you or me. They see the light and dark, mostly. So when I pass a shadow over her, she thinks, ‘Oh, what big bird is that in this house!’”

Angel laughed. “Silly… it knows you’re not a bird.”

“Spiders aren’t very smart,” his mother told him. “She’s not sure if I want to eat her, but she knows that she’s in trouble.”

He watched the spider regain its composure and start moving again. His mother lowered her hand onto it from behind, so that her shadow fell behind its sight. She crushed it flat, smiling.

“Kinder than sending her outside to drown.”


	2. Say what you mean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuck inside right now like everyone else on Earth, and found this sitting in my docs as a draft. I thought it might still interest a few of you out there! The next chapter will be a lot more explicitly dark.

“What I’m saying is, it’s gotta be a front for something, right?” Cherri tossed back way more than a handful of curly fries all at once, and then slurped the rest of her milkshake to wash them down.

“Who gives a shit. They got the best egg cream I ever drank down here,” Angel said, and then thought again. “The only egg cream I ever seen here, actually. So yeah, probably a fuckin’ front for something.”

 _Jimmy Rickets_ sat in a relatively quiet corner of the Pentagram, an old fashioned 1950s era diner shoved between a mess of crooked, mile high residential skyscrapers. It was a tiny place. The outside was all chrome, the booths were shiny cracked red vinyl, and if you fed the glowing jukebox a few coins and banged it just right you could sit and listen to the same four Elvis songs on a loop while you pondered eternity in Hell.

Angel thought _Jimmy Rickets_ was hilarious. The place was almost always completely empty— another point for Cherri’s “secretly part of someone’s criminal empire” theory— which was refreshing sometimes. It was a nice spot to go before meeting up with a client, and it was close enough to the studio that if he was feeling ballsy he could dip out between shoots and grab a bite.

The irony of spending his time in Hell sitting in a shitty diner based on the trappings of a decade he hadn’t even lived to see? That wasn’t lost on him. But it was a funny kind of irony.

And the egg creams really were good.

Cherri grinned from ear to ear, and rested her chin on her hands. Her tone was conspiratorial. “So, anyway...how’s shit been with you know who since you know what?”

“He’s, y’know. Just…the usual. He’s Val. Tomorrow we’re g—“

“Nah, nah, not the roach. _You_ know who I mean.” 

Angel stared at her blankly, feeling a little dumb. She bared her teeth and made bunny ears behind her head with her fingers. “C’mon, who am I.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Cherri. The Radio freak? Guy physically threatens me just one itty bitty time and you’re obsessed.” 

“I think you’re the one who got a little obsessed, Angel. All you talked about last time I saw you.”

“Weeks ago, ya bitch.” Angel swirled a fry through ketchup and pointed it at her floppily. “For your information, it’s been fine. Hasn’t done shit. No new threats, so that’s a win, right?” He paused. “Only new thing is he’s, uh...a little touchier than usual, I guess.”

“Touchier?”

“Touchy. I don't mean pissy. I mean, you know, handsy. Every time I turn around, guy’s in my space.” Angel didn’t miss her frown, and he fluttered his eyes at her. “Oh, Cherri, you think he _like_ -likes me? Yanking my pigtails?”

“Probably hate-hates you, since he’s stuck living with your annoying ass. Who can blame him.” Cherri snickered. “But, hey, you’re telling me you’re good with that? You know he’s just trying to get under your skin, right?”

He sucked at his egg cream and let her go on.

“Nobody’s ever gonna touch him, so he figures he can do whatever he wants. We both know the type.”

“I didn’t die yesterday, Cherri. I take care of myself.”

“Listen, all I’m saying is I know you. I know how you get.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

She sighed and rolled her eye. “I mean...that you let assholes like this do whatever they fucking feel like doing to you. And that’s all good when it’s for your job. But he’s not paying you, right? So why don’t you say something for a change? What the fuck do you even have Valentino for, if he won’t have your back when some chode puts his hands on you?”

He set his glass down with a loud tink and gave her a look. 

She shrugged back at him. “Sorry-not-sorry. You know how I feel about that prick.” A dozen more fries met their maker. “Every fucking other time we go out, you’ve got a bruise somewhere he thinks nobody’s gonna see before it heals.”

“AW, well, I think that’s strictly classified as _nunya_.” 

“I literally taught you that one, so I swear to—“ 

“Nunya fuggin’ business.” 

Cherri sucked her teeth. She seemed to give up, finally. She slumped back and snatched a laminated menu from the empty table behind her. “You think the burgers are people?”

“They don’t taste like it, but, uh, probably. Hey, Jimmy, honey, wanna give me two burgers? And two more a’ these, maybe with some goddamn whiskey in em?”

The big guy behind the counter, an ugly kind of slug squid hybrid, wiped a towel across his forehead to collect the ink dripping from his pompadour. He huffed. “Not my name. And we’re still dry, Angel, ain’t changed.”

“Dry?” Cherri cackled and it ended in a snort that was nearly cute. “A dry joint in HELL? It's a front, bitch, I’m telling you. Fancy speakeasy in the basement with the good stuff.”

“That right, Jimmy?”

“Stop calling me Jimmy, please.”

As the slug slowly slid his way to the grill, Angel turned back to Cherri and caught her staring. Instead of looking away from him, her eye met his eyes and her face went as close to soft as he’d ever seen.

“Be careful out there, babe.” 

__________

Angel was never good at being careful.

‘Taking care’ of yourself was one thing. He liked 'take care of yourself', whenever someone tossed it out as a goodbye all casual; it meant he was still in control. If he ever didn’t like the way a situation was headed, he knew how to talk himself out of it, after all. Sometimes, if that didn’t work, he’d break someone’s fingers or whip out a gun. Several guns. But ‘being careful’?

_Be careful, babe?_

That shit was something else, and it had never been his thing. 'Be careful' meant 'be afraid'.

 _Careful doesn't pay the bills_ , he thought.

And that’s how he found himself ducking out of the hotel’s house meeting early, despite all of Charlie’s protests.

“Angel, please! We’re only going to do this once a month, and it’s only one single liiittle hour of your time.” She was pouting now. Cute. “Two hours, tops. Less than...some movies! Don’t you care about, um,” Charlie shuffled a pile of papers, and he could see most were covered in doodles, “uh, chore rotation?”

“Literally not at fucking all, toots,” he said, and he pinched the red apple of one of her cheeks gently. “But if it’s the really super important kind of absolute bullshit, you can slide it under my door, alright? I got a thing.”

“Typical,” Vaggie said. “A ‘thing’.”

“Relax, sweetness. I just gotta make a business call. I’m not goin’ anywhere, even. Be right upstairs, promise.” He held up one hand in a salute and tucked the others behind his back. "Scout's honor."

"All of your fingers are crossed back there, aren't they?" Vaggie asked. "Every single one."

Angel winked at her scowl.

“Take a cookie, at least?” Charlie jolted up from her seat at the table and shoved a tray at him, seemingly pulled from nowhere. He blinked, surprised. They were peanut butter, sloppy and globby, but they looked homemade. Little criss cross marks pressed into the tops with the tines of a fork. Somehow he couldn’t find it in him to be rude about something so earnest.

“Thanks, Char. Where the hell’d you get the peanuts?” He plucked one up and popped it in his mouth, making a show of it. “Mm. Next month, I’m gonna figure out how to make us _pignoli_.”

She squeaked happily, and her face lit up. Something gross like affection banged around in his heart. “I don’t know what that is! But I bet it’s tasty!”

“Well, you’d bet right. Uh, later.”

He could hear Vaggie muttering as he walked away. Definitely about him. 

As he headed upstairs, he turned the game plan over in his head. It wasn’t exactly a complicated one: Alastor hadn’t been at the meeting. He was probably still up in his room. The guy got special “partner” privileges, apparently; he could just ignore all of Charlie’s invites for meetings and parties and fundraisers and whatever the fuck else. Never had to worry about moth bitch busting HIS door down.

_Go up there, see what his deal is, maybe rattle him a little bit. If that’s even possible._

He hated the fact that Cherri’s words had gotten in his head.

_Is he really just trying to piss me off? Does he think I'll just...let him?_

Some part of him had wanted to believe that Alastor had no idea what he was doing, or the effect that it had. But if he was being honest with himself, he knew better. Deep down, after all of his dealings with powerful men, he knew that the touching was on purpose. Everything men like that did was on purpose.

Cherri was right. Each time he touched Angel's skin, he was trying to get under it.

Alastor’s presence the last few weeks was constant, and it was almost grating. Of course, maybe things hadn’t changed, and Angel’s mind was playing tricks on him. Maybe it was the same as it had always been, and only getting to him now. But Angel was sure, pretty sure, at least, that things were different. At first, he thought he’d just pissed Alastor off. The way things had ended that night, he figured Al felt bitter. He’d expected all the lingering pats, all the pet names, to stop. He expected he’d be ignored, avoided, probably. But the usual pleasant over the top syrupy greetings from Alastor didn’t go away. 

And neither did all the “friendly”, incidental contact. It’d been a little like a joke before, a type of mean nicety from Alastor. But now it all had a strange aftertaste. A type of dry bitterness.

Angel, for his part, went about the last few weeks normally. He did what he always did. He picked fights. He snuck himself out for work. He snuck things in for play. The entire time, his mind was always more occupied by the mystery of Alastor and by the frustration of Alastor’s hands than anything else. A tap on his shoulder or an unnecessary bump in the hallway. Two eyes boring into the back of his head hotly as he walked past. The memory of Alastor’s claws casually resting on his leg with...who knows what intent.

He might have jacked off to the thought of those hands a few more nights than even he cared to admit.

And then Cherri had called him out on being a pussy, and that was the final straw. 

_Can't let this shit slide_ , he thought. _Give 'em one inch, they’ll give you all of theirs right up the ass..._

He took a moment outside Alastor’s door. Its motif was different from the others, with golden art nouveau style antlers encircling its peep hole. As soon as he rapped on the wood, he could hear something shuffle inside. A chair dragged. There was the characteristic tap-tapping of Alastor’s shoes, and then—

“Angel,” he deadpanned. The door was opened so slightly that the room's details weren't visible around all Alastor’s red. Just darkness. “What a pleasant surprise! How can I help you? Am I needed downstairs?”

“Nah, don’t worry about that shit. I don’t think Charlie’s gonna be handing you out a chore list anytime soon, so you’re good.”

“Oh, I hope she doesn’t. I abhor washing dishes. But I suppose if she insists, I’ll just accidentally break a few and that’ll end that!” Alastor laughed, and then his smile went wrong. He propped the door open further. “Why are you here?”

 _His jacket's off. That's a new one._ The guy was dressed more casual than he’d ever seen, but sounded standoffish.

“Uh, sorry— I catch you in the middle of something? Gotta talk to you. If you got a minute.”

“Come in.”

Alastor disappeared behind the door, leaving Angel to take a deep breath and push it open on his own. Alastor was already seated at a desk. It was Angel’s first chance to see Alastor’s place, so he took it all in as quickly as he could: dark. Much larger on the inside than it should be. Big desk, crowded with papers. Bunch of mics and unidentifiable radio parts scattered on a shelf above a crackling fireplace. Books everywhere. Anachronistic windows— the room was in the middle of the hotel, but it somehow overlooked a courtyard that was definitely at the back of the building.

Two rifles leaned in a corner. 

“Niiice place!” He let some flattering awe creep into his voice for effect. “How much money I gotta give you to get myself one of these, custom? Or would you want somethin' else, maybe?”

Alastor looked up from his paperwork. With his jacket off and tie loosened, he was uncharacteristically informal. The candles on the desk lit his face warmly. “Sorry for being a poor host, but I’m quite busy at the moment! No time for your,” he paused to lick a finger and turn a page, “charmingly sordid brand of nonsense.”

“Oh, I gotcha! Guess I’ll cut to the chase.” Angel looked around for a chair. The two he did see were occupied, piles of books sitting in them like messy leaning towers.

Alastor barely glanced up. With a snap of his fingers, another chair clunked to the floor next to his desk. Angel recognized it from the lobby, a plush old armchair. He sat in it sideways, legs over an armrest. For second, he thought he caught Alastor rolling his eyes.

“Anyways. What’s with the touching, Smiles?”

There was a tiny screech of interference. 

Alastor turned his chair to look at him. “I always forget how absolutely forward you can be about these things.” He put his pen down and closed his work inside a desk drawer. 

“Hey, it worked. Look at you, tidying up and shit.” Angel smirked. "Got your attention, so..."

“You’re not wrong.”

“So clue me in. I’m a _super_ busy guy, too. I don’t got time for all the bullshit. Flirting, or whatever it is you’re trying to do.” Angel lifted himself up a bit and pulled his chair closer to the desk with his secondary arms so he could lean lazily on it with his primary ones. 

Confidence theater.

“Flirting! Imagine.”

“Then what is it, Al?” Angel said. “You got a hate crush on me? Wanna get all up in these _guts_ , in the murder kind of way?” 

Angel let the insinuation hang in the air for a minute. When there was no response, he stood and made the two strides he needed to be behind Al’s desk. He got so close to him that their legs were brushing together.

“You talk so much, Al. Makes it really mean something when you're quiet.”

Something flickered in Alastor’s eyes at Angel’s purr.

"How ‘bout it?”

“Maybe, Angel. You make it so tempting.”

“Damn, now who’s the one bein’ forward?”

Angel didn’t miss the way Alastor glanced at his legs. “I believe that’s still you.” His static had been buzzing away gently, but it was quiet now. “If you insist on keeping this up, I am going to hurt you. I trust you're smart enough to realize that, of course. But I thought I'd reiterate."

“Oh, so it’s okay for you to play one sided grab ass, but if I reciprocate at all, I’m wrong?” 

Angel had no idea if his next move would be the last one he'd ever make. You can only bullshit for so long, after all, before someone calls your bluff.

But the risk was worth it for the frozen, almost broken look on Alastor’s face as Angel slid a long leg over the arm of his chair and lowered himself so that he was half-perched on his lap. “That’s a load of horseshit. If you didn’t want me right here,” he punctuated the word with a single grind of his hips, “you already woulda done something about it. Or left. You know...” Angel snapped his fingers, two handed, in tandem. “...just like that.”

“Angel. I gave you a warning. I really don’t think Charlie would be thrilled with either of us if you disappeared on her.”

“It's always the fucking same. You don't find it a little cliche at this point, Al?”

“What's that?”

“The villain shit. I'm starting to think the worst part of Hell is being trapped here with a bunch of self absorbed dickheads like you.”

“Angel, Angel, please. I'm willing to listen, up to a point. But you have to make one, instead of just testing my patience with insults!” He grinned. “Be specific, at least! There are certainly plenty of things I've done wrong, after all. Go ahead and pick one.”

“ _That_. That shit. Acting like you're better than everyone else that's set foot down here. Acting like you're royalty, just because you deserve being stuck here more than us fucking peasants.”

“Go on, Angel.”

“Fucking power trip bullshit. Trying to scare people with shitty...villain monologues like somethin' outta a comic book. I did this, I did that, I'll do it to you if you don't do what I want— _it doesn't scare me anymore_ , asshole. Do you get that?”

“Angel.” 

“ _What_?” Angel spat. “Cut the shit and stop saying my name like that. I’m not a goddamn kid.”

One of Alastor’s ears turned sharply, and he leaned back in his chair. He drummed his claws on the desk blotter in front of him, a soft taptaptap against the leather. 

“Maybe I have been crass. It's just my nature, at this point, Angel. What I default to. You do the same. Have your own tendencies, that is. Perhaps you're just too close to notice yours. But just look at yourself right now.” He sneered, looking straight into Angel’s face, and Angel’s stomach fluttered. “So shameless.”

“Oh, no. No, I'm not too close. I know what I do. Me flashing a little leg, wearing heels to feel nice or get some schmuck's attention?” He ducked down to rumble near Alastor’s ear. “It's not the same as you and your huge…ego.”

Alastor sat, unblinking, looking stunned despite his smile. 

Angel felt emboldened. His voice came in a purr.

"You wanna know the truth, baby? I think what happened is, up there where the real people are, you had nothing. Nobody liked you. Maybe _mommy_ was mean to you." Angel smile gently, flashing gold. "So you started taking it out on pretty girls to get some control back. And then when you died, you came down here and got aaaall the control you wanted. People think you're something here. You got a taste of actual power and you fucking ran with it. And now you're _insufferable_."

"Insufferable. Now there's a two dollar word."

“Shut up and put your hands where you want them, Al.”

The room was dead silent. For a moment, Angel could swear he was isolated from the world again. Back at the bar in the rain with Alastor’s eyes taking him in, hungry.

“You are beautiful, you know.” Al paused. Angel could just barely see him shake a thought a way. “Do you want a taste?”

“Fuckin'...excuse me?”

“A taste of actual power, Angel.”

“Are you threatening me? After what I just said about cliche villain sh—”

“No. I’m not threatening you. I'm making an offer. I want to just...speak plainly now. Can we do that?”

“What kind of offer? One of your under-world famous deals?”

“I did say plainly. I meant it. Not a deal. No handshake. A partnership.”

Angel felt his shoulders loosen, but they immediately tightened again when Alastor’s hand slipped around one of his lower wrists and rubbed at his palm.

“I was thinking about this as a possibility long before tonight’s conversation, actually. But your outburst just now,” he hummed, and Angel’s hackles raised, “it...intrigued me more. You really aren't afraid of me, are you?”

“Not a smidge, dickwad.”

“HA! It's...refreshing to hear that. Even if I know it's not true.”

He reached up and touched Angel’s waist. “You are afraid of me. You just aren't afraid of consequences anymore. And I like that.”

Angel grinned and leaned into the touch. “Whatever you say, Bambi.”

“How much would it cost me to have you as a companion? For a night. Or a few nights.”

“Why, Alastor, I NEVER. What kinda slut do you take me for?”

“No.” Angel realized that if Alastor had a free hand, he might be pinching the bridge of his nose. He snickered internally at the thought. “Please. For companionship, like I said. For a little adventure.”

“What kind?”

“You make me feel...nostalgic, Angel Dust. Your attitude. The way you go toe to toe. These last few weeks, I’ve been thinking about the sort of thing I used to do when I was alive. Killing in Hell isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“So that's what gets you off? Offing somebody else?”

“Oh, maybe I wouldn't go that far.” He laughed. “Maybe I would. I have to admit that I miss it. Desperately. There's no more time for my favorite indulgences...no luring someone where I want them and then doing what I want with them. All of these sinners know better by now. I’m not anonymous. Like you said. People know I’m _something_ here.”

“Aw, shucks, buddy. You kill guys all the time. We all do.”

“That's exactly it, Angel. There's nothing subversive about killing someone in Hell. It's what everyone expects! Someone looks at you the wrong way here, you kill him. Before he kills you. It's so...dull. Dull.” He paused. “Can you imagine?”

“I thought you were Mister Bloodlust Supreme. How are you gonna go ahead and get tired of a lil carnage?”

“It's just so...rote. It doesn't have the same power behind it as it did before. As it should.” The fireplace crackled away, and Alastor’s voice was soft. “Not the same power. Or the same intimacy.”

“Intimacy, huh. You want to elaborate on that?”

“I’d rather just show you.”

Angel started laughing.

“Ahaha, fuck. You’re yanking my chain, Al. Is that what your crush is about, you think I never killed anyone before? Got some kind of... _virgin_ fetish? I got bad news for you. I’m not your guy. Not a virgin in any a’ the ways.”

“You’ve killed someone before, sure.” Alastor's grin was absolutely impish. Angel could feel something invisible crawling on his neck. “But have you ever taken a life? It’s a very different thing, Angel.”

Alastor’s hand crept its way from Angel’s waist down to his hip and squeezed, claws digging deep through his clothing into his groin and the very beginning of the meat of his ass.

“The feeling of catching someone off guard...hunting. Like animals. That power, to just take someone’s everything away— to make it all stop. When you want to, because you want to. No other reason. To see the blood, maybe. To see how someone works.” 

His thumb rubbed rough circles into Angel’s hipbone. “It’s intoxicating. And you’re intoxicating.”

“What do you really want, Alastor? Go ahead and speak _real plain_ for me,” Angel mocked.

“I want to hunt again. And I want you to be my bait.”

**Author's Note:**

> I love all kinds of feedback!
> 
> My Hazbin twitter: @0deux (18+ only)


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